Belatedly, Alana directs me into taking off my shoes. We store them in a tall cabinet against one of the walls, exchanging them for slimmer shoes with no heels that are plush, lined with fur, and sinfully comfortable. They are also snug and warm. I swear I’m going to have a pair made if I don’t outright take them.

Afterwards, she guides me through the house. After going down a long hall, we enter a trophy room. By trophies, I mean the natural ones. The hunters and nobles who wish to look fearsome of the capital are content with putting heads on their walls. Even my wife is only interested in skulls.

Not so for the lord of Victory. He has whole corpses on display. A large fox with two tails. An enormous bird with wings long enough to cover the entirety of a wall. A stag with a single, spiraling horn that looks to be made of blue crystal. All manners of creatures populate the room, crouched as if ready to pounce on those passing by or posed as if the subject of a master painter. Their hides are brushed to a sheen and in place of their eyes are precious gems that catch the light coming through the windows.

What interests me is that every creature here has a light coat. White, gray, silver, very faint blue, and black dominate their coloring. If the theme holds for the whole of the north, then our enemies are going to be hard to spot. I have a bad feeling the campaign will be suffering many ambushes.

“Beast artists are popular in Victory.”

I come back from my thoughts at Alana’s voice. She steps up to a large bear looking creature with…fins? Very long fins instead of hind legs and a long, flat tail. “Their methods differ. Almost all of them start by cleaning the skeleton. The best artists create a stone model that encases the skeleton, then stretch the skin over it but that takes a master earth caster and sculptor. Preferably both in one but that’s incredibly rare as most of our casters are combat oriented.

“It’s far more common to pose the skeleton with wood and string then stuff it, though there’s a lot of variances there as well. Children or beginners without the crowns for good materials might use snow, which works fairly well if they keep their creations cold. The more common filling is rocks, crushed to gravel. The better ones use wool or cotton for stuffing, which is absurdly expensive but you know how powerful people are. Nothing but the best.”

I shake my head. People waste good gold stuffing dead animals for decorations. If the evidence didn’t surround me, I’d never believe it. “And the gems?”

“Ah. I hear the eyes are the hardest part. No, gems aren’t the norm. The better artists use glass. Don’t ask me how they make the pieces so small. Or color them.”

“Hm.”

“Come on.” She tugs on our joined hands. “We don’t want to make Father wait too long.”

I let her continue guiding me. As she opens the opposite door of the trophy room, I’m forced to squint from a sudden glare. A quick drop of a ‘film’ later and the painful light abates and I take in the sight with interest.

Alana guides me down a long, narrow corridor with another door at its end. On either side, the wall is divided into two parts. The lower half is drab gray stone, nothing surprisingly. The upper half is clear glass, stretching from one end of the wall to the other. It’s occasionally broken by slender metal rods. I’m guessing frames to hold the glass in place. Still, quite impressive. Especially the view.

On either side is a spotless field of white snow, the small amount falling from the sky too gentle to disrupt the tranquility of the moment. Here, sheltered from the cold and strangely warm, it’s rather…pretty. I wonder if the residents of Victory would hang me for thinking such.

Alana pauses as we reach the opposite door. After a strong squeeze, she lets go of my hand. I look toward her but she ignores my gaze, staring straight forward. “Lou, whatever happens in there, don’t interfere,” she says in a grave tone.

“What’s about to happen, Alana?” For her to say something like that, it’s clearly something I’m going to disagree with and that makes me very nervous.

“I am about to be welcomed home, the James way.” She lets out a deep breath before looking at me. “I’m pretty sure you…we’re going to raise all kinds of trouble before this is over but this moment…not now. This is for me to handle.”

She turns and pushes open the double doors in front of us, not giving me the chance to respond. I have no choice but to follow her into the room or be left behind. The doors close behind us with an ominous thud.

There is nothing pretty about this room. The long wooden floors would remind me of a ballroom if not for the racks of weapons, bladed on one side, wooden on the other. Near the top of the gray walls are long rectangular slits, impractical for seeing through but enough to let in copious amounts of light. Several sets of armor in different styles stand along the back wall, posed with a fist against their chest. And the front…

At the front of the room is a small stone altar. Seated on its top is a small bowl, a tall candle on either side of it. A banner with a brilliant full moon held in the jaws of a vague but fearsome beast on it hangs on the wall, two mounted longswords crossed over it.

Seated in front of the altar is a man. All I can see of him are his dark hair streaked with silver, his broad shoulders, and his calloused feet, but Alana’s reaction is enough to make a guess as to his identity.

She holds out an arm, telling me to stay back. Then she kicks off her shoes and steps into the middle of the room, standing with her arms against her lower back. “I have returned, Father.”

The man doesn’t react to the words immediately. The silence drags on and on, until my feet shuffle with the urge to leave the overbearing tension.

It feels like a small eternity but I wager only a few minutes have passed. An incredibly long time to acknowledge someone’s greeting but Alana told me to stay out of whatever happens. I imagine that extends to the continuing trend of disrespect toward my future wife.

With the pace of a glacier and the grace of a dancer, as much as hate to admit it, the man rises. His arms move before he bows toward the banner. Only then does he turn around.

The resemblance to my future saint is immediately recognizable. That brow, that chin, that nose. She’s practically a copy of him, albeit a softer one. She certainly inherited her steely gaze from him. His blue eyes might as well be ice for how cold they are as he looks at her.

“Alana.” Despite his age, his voice is deep and powerful. “Pay your respects.”

She promptly hits her chest with a fist, pounding it against her breast after each sentence she shouts loud enough to echo off the high ceiling. “Glory to the ancestors! Glory to the warriors of Victory! Glory to the James family!”

“I hope your time in the sun hasn’t thawed your ability, daughter. Pick your weapon.”

She briskly walks toward the rack holding wooden weapons, grabbing a replica of her sword before returning to the center of the room. Rather than her usual stance of holding the sword behind her, she holds it upright in front of her, her hands holding the hilt tightly.

Her father leisurely closes the distance between them. I can only describe it as leisurely but it’s the nonchalance of an apex predator sauntering through its territory. He stops at a dueling distance, arms at his side, his expression not changing by a twitch. “Come.”

She doesn’t hesitate to attack, stepping forward and bringing her sword down in a vicious chop. There’s a brief flash of green mana as her father deflects the blow. She recovers instantly and launches into a series of attacks but he blocks them with contemptuous ease. He’s swatting away her attacks like she’s an annoying fly.

The exchange ends with one of the deflections causing her to stumble. As if she knows what’s coming, she hurriedly tries to guard with her free hand but she isn’t fast enough. The loud clap of an open palm hitting skin makes me wince as he tosses her aside. Behind my back, one hand grabs the opposite wrist, the motions helping me remain in place.

Don’t, Lou. She asked me not to interfere. Not now. Hold it in. He’ll get what’s coming to him. Soon. Sooner than he thinks.

“You held onto your weapon,” her uncaring brute of a father says as she climbs to her feet. “And you’ve grown stronger. Sending you to the Hall wasn’t a waste of time. Ready yourself.”

Licking her bleeding lip, she returns to her starting position, retaking her stance without a word of complaint.

“Come.”

The one-sided beating lasts for several minutes. She swings and he deflects. Waiting for a mistake to knock her down. Staring at her apathetically as she struggles back to her feet and presents herself for the next blow. I stand to the side, tense as a drawn bowstring as I struggle not to intervene.

I don’t know why it upsets me so much. It isn’t any more brutal than Kierra’s training. Saints, she’s far worse. It’s something about his demeanor. My elf may break bones but she restores them lovingly and holds you while you cry bitter tears of regret before restarting the torture. This man. He is…dismissive. Somehow, that makes him far crueler in my eyes.

As I watch him abuse the woman I love, and I can use no other word no matter how I try to frame it in my mind, my dislike for the man morphs into disdain and edges close to hatred.

Finally, the disgusting show comes to an end. Not by Alana. She’s far too stubborn. Huffing in pain and no doubt covered in fresh bruises, she struggles to her feet for the fifteenth time. She retakes her starting position and holds her weapon with grit teeth. Anyone can see she’s in no condition to continue but she still doesn’t offer a word of complaint.

“Enough.” At least her father isn’t a complete bastard who enjoys inflicting pain on his daughter. Seeing she can’t continue, he calls the beating to an end. His eyes remain emotionless as she collapses, sitting on the floor with her head bowed as she takes deep breaths. “Your stamina has improved as well. Enough to keep up on the next campaign. You’ve done well, Alana.”

She raises her head, face carefully blank. My heart sinks. Because, though she likes to think she’s a stone wall when she wants to be, I’ve gotten fairly good at reading her. It helps being able to see the tiniest twitch of her lips as they move into the beginnings of a smile before she manages to smother it. Saints damn it all, she’s happy. “Thank you, Father.”

“We will discuss your training until the departure at dinner.” For the first time, his eyes move to me. His brows furrow the tiniest amount as I meet his gaze head-on. Perceptive bastard, this man. “Who are you?”